We will all go,
one by one,
as you did, Father,
late last year.
Not raging that you'd
soon be gone.
Not knowing,
as you climbed the stairs,
that you'd reach the height
but not your bed,
crumpling to the hallway floor
beside the cedar chest
she had, and loved,
and filled with dreams
years before she met you,
when but a slight,
brunette, pretty,
athletic, intelligent,
and happier
girl.
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